Hard Knocks: Of Life and the Headboard
by Cerulea
Summary: AU about a teenaged boy from the wrong side of the tracks carrying the weight of keeping his family together, trying to take care of his little brother and keep his father off the edge. When he strikes up a daring friendship with an usual classmate, things get more complicated. A little gritty, angsty, etc. Dark themes will present themselves.
1. Chapter One - Hard Knocks

**Hard Knocks: Of life and the headboard.**

It's been a long day. Nothing has gone particularly wrong for Dean - school was as usual, people gave him a wide berth, no one challenged the tall kid from the wrong side of the tracks who wore a beat-up leather coat and a chip on his shoulder. Not to mention the knife in his boot.

School was solitary, but acceptable. Dean wanted it that way.

His jeans were ripped, and his t-shirt faded and frayed but thankfully, that seemed to be cool these days. The emptiness of his pockets, however, was less than appealing. God was he hungry. Too proud to admit he needed school-sponsored lunches, god knows he wasn't going to ask John for _that_ signature, and too much of a loving big brother to stomach using his very imposing form to frighten lunch money out of the other kids, Dean hadn't eaten since breakfast this morning. _Before_ he'd taken his brother to school then made his way across town to the high school, where classes droned on and his lunch period was spent out by the bleachers, pretending he wasn't hungry. He can smell fast food as he pushes the gate of their shit-hole apartment complex open, and it makes his stomach growl. His boots feel like lead on the sun-bleached cement as he makes his way across the complex to their ground floor apartment. He sighs at the cigarette butts at their stoop and kicks them over toward the neighbor's door. How many fucking times has he told them to keep their shit to themselves? Shaking his head Dean keys his way in, but he smiles when he sees Sammy lying on his stomach on the bed, with his workbook open in front of him. Sam sees him and smiles a huge, childish smile that makes Dean glad for the first time all day.

"Mrs. Tran drop you off right at the door?" Dean asks seriously.

Sam nods and adds, "She even waited for me to get in."

"Good." Dean hates having to leave Sam with others, knowing he won't be able to beat him home with the hike that he has from school to their neighborhood. In olden days he would have taken the car. But it appears John's latest bender has taken him far enough to forget to come home for awhile. Not that Dean is complaining. He's more relaxed with John gone. But no John means no Impala. And no paycheck coming in. And Dean hates knowing that he can't take care of Sam on his own. He is glad for Mrs. Tran, an honest if severe woman who takes to delivering Sam to their apartment after school like a Marine set on a mission. Her and her infant son live upstairs. There's no husband in the picture but Dean wouldn't do her the disservice of asking where the man is. Mrs. Tran, if anything, is an extremely capable woman.

Dean trudges across the room, letting out a sigh. He collapses onto the squeaky bed, smiling at the way Sammy laughs when the springs creak and mattress bounces. There apartment is little better than a motel room - one bedroom, one bathroom, this rickety bed just inside the doorway for Sam and a ratty couch for Dean, with a coffee table, a kitchenette and a broken thermostat. Home sweet home. But still, it's safe and familiar and Dean's glad to be settled, with a roof over his and Sammy's heads. He remembers those few years, after Mom died, when they seemed to live out of the car, they uprooted so often. He's glad Sam doesn't have to live like that, and was too young to really remember it.

"How was school, bud?" he asks the precious goofball.

"My name's not bud," Sam laughs.

"Ok, how was school Earl?" Dean jokes, eyes slipping closed, body heavy and ready to be done for the day.

"Noooo," Sam plays along.

"Gus?"

"No!"

"Jennifer?"

"No!"

"Mmm, Fred?"

"No!" Sam hefts himself onto Dean's body like a sack of potatoes (with elbows, unfortunately), giggling at his brother's responding groan, and buries his face in Dean's chest.

"Well who are ya then?" Dean jokes.

"I am Sam, Sam I am," he says simply, his chin resting on Dean's chest, big hazel eyes looking up at his brother.

"Oh well in that case, I know what you're having for dinner..." he cracks an eye open to look down at Sam, seeing he's smiling, knowing what comes next, "green eggs and ham-"

"Nooooo!"

"-and brussel sprouts!" Dean sits up suddenly gathering his wiggling little brother into his arms.

"Nooo!"

"And spinach! And onions!"

"No and no!" Sam shouts through laughter.

"You sure?" Dean asks, holding Sam like he did when he was a baby.

Sam beams up at him and nods.

"Well, alright then," Dean sighs, "spaghetti o's it is."

Sam screams his _yay_ of relief, for which Dean is thankful. All they have is spaghetti o's. All they will have until dad's next check is spaghetti o's. Dean is extremely thankful that Sam seems to be obsessed with them right now. He could sing hymns of praise to his little brother's unyielding Spaghetti o's phase. It takes a lot of the pressure off. And alleviates the guilt of knowing that he can't do better.

They eat together, quietly. And then Dean sends Sam to the coffee table to do his homework. Sam sighs, not in the mood, preferring to watch _Thundercats_. But Dean's got a strict _no TV until the homework's done_ policy. One that only stands for Sammy, because he himself doesn't bother with homework. Why would he? He'll be a drop out soon anyway, what with his absenteeism and pension for _damning the man_ as a general rule. Dad's gone longer and longer all the time, and soon that'll leave him to feed his little brother on a paycheck of his own. High school in comparison to all that is... insignificant.

At school he is tough. At school he is an outsider. He's arranged it that way. He looks dangerous now, to the other kids. Like he knows scary, real-world things they don't want to have to know yet (which he does), and it puts them all off.

All, except one.

And the fucker is scratching at Dean's mind, pulling his focus like an annoying itch.

There is a pale boy, almost as tall as Dean, odd and a bit of a loner. He's got family. He's got friends, he must, or at least, amicable associations. And he's got money. He's got a bright future, Dean's sure. What he doesn't have, is manners.

In Dean's world, a strong stare means a challenge. But the more Dean responds to this guy's staring with his own challenging glare, the more the guy refuses to let up.

And Dean can't have pretty, rich boys staring at him. He just can't. He has to prove he's a man. More of a man than any of the others. It keeps him safe, keeps his dad off his back, and more importantly, it keeps everyone else at a distance.

At home he can read Dr. Seuss and be soft and make dinner and kiss his brother's hair before he goes to sleep. Out there in the world, he has no brother, none that they're allowed to know about. He has no weaknesses and no affections. He simply is. Like a stanchion the other students have to maneuver around without ever bothering to ask why it's there. He's not to be bothered.

Especially not by some guy, with beautiful dark blue eyes, and handsome hands, and distractingly kissable pink lips. Least of all by him. Because there's more at stake than his reputation at school, and Dean can't have his father thinking that he's... like _that_.

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_Hello good people of the interwebs. Have you missed me like I've missed you? (Maybe don't answer that, I really don't need to embarrass myself any more than usual.) _

_As always, reviews warm the cockles of my heart. (hehe - _cockles_) For my purposes I've made the age difference between Sam and Dean greater, as you could probably tell. _


	2. Chapter Two - All Eyes on You, Handsome

___Thanks for the reviews!_

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**Chapter Two - All Eyes on You, Handsome.**

It's another one of those days. Where Dean just wants to melt into the wallpaper, but instead, he's in the middle of everything. He's in everyone's way. And the more he tries to be invisible, the more eyes he can feel on him. Guys glancing at him in challenge. Teachers glancing at him in judgement or worry. Girls glancing at him curiously. All of them only daring to _glance_, never really _looking_.

And then, of course, there's _him_.

That same rude son of a bitch.

Dean just wants to make it through these useless school hours without conflict and go home to his brother. But this son of a bitch is staring again, and it's really starting to get under his skin. The boy is oddly still in the chaotic bustle of the hallway, an almost-smile on his face like a mystery that begs asking, _What? What's so funny? **What**?_ Dean is too busy angrily returning the boy's blatant stare from down the busy hallway with a tight-jawed, obviously challenging one of his own, to see that he is about to collide with the Captain of the football team. The jock stands from his book-retrieving crouch just as Dean moves to get by another student and their shoulders bump - not violently, just enough for the Letterman-jacketed alpha male to drop his notebook and feel purposefully slighted.

Dean is instinctually going to mutter _Sorry _and carry on about his business, until he sees the look in the other boy's eyes. Irritation and malice. Dean knows this guy thinks that he's been challenged, that Dean is a rebel-kid who wants to show him who's bad, who's strong. So the apology dies in Dean's throat before its ever given breath, and instead his eyes slide to the embroidered "Brady" on the front of the jock's coat. Dean stands up straight, tilts his head back just enough to know he looks tough. He's got the guy handled, size-wise, but he knows this jackass loves to fight. He knows the guy spends his entire life in the gym, has nothing else to worry about but how much he can press. And Dean is strong and tough, been in enough scraped to know he can handle himself, but he doesn't have the extra tone this jock does.

The electric charge of challenge between them has the hall going quiet and still around them as their peers stop to watch, wondering with rapt fascination if this age-old high school paradigm is going to be played out right before their eyes in a fit of adolescent punches. The jock shoves Dean at the shoulders, sending him faltering back a step but undeterred. An obvious taunt, one that Dean's no stranger to. Dean steps right back, just barely smirking. And that does it, he can see the other boy's jaw clench in fury at his cockiness. Dean can see in his eyes that the guy is gonna punch him, he can feel it.

But then suddenly there's a teacher between them, hands solid on each of their chests physically keeping them apart. And Brady loses his chance to take a swing at Dean. "Alright boys, break it up, break it up," the teacher says quietly, as though the idea of the impending fisticuffs bores him.

Brady glares. Dean steps back.

"Go to class. _Now_," the teacher commands. He's a tall wiry thing with glasses but a sizable frame. Dean often wonders if maybe he didn't start some trouble in his day. He respects that he is one of the few teachers who will break it up and send them on their way, as opposed to simply defaulting to sending them to the office - a waste of everybody's time.

The jock reluctantly backs away into a circle of his friends, his eyes never leaving Dean's until he is eclipsed by the crowd. His friends all joining him in their lingering glares.

Dean stalks away down the hall, slamming open the door to the stairwell and disappearing even as he can feel the burn of a hallway full of eyes on his back.

He shoves through the heavy metal door at the bottom of the stairs and breathes deep when he can feel the sun on him. He walks over to the cement wall beside the stairs, throwing down his backpack and sitting down heavily, leaning back against the brick of the school. His head thuds back against the wall and he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to settle his frustration before he succumbs to the need to punch something.

He doesn't so much hear as _feel_ when someone comes to stand beside him.

Dean opens an eye, squinting up into the sun, seeing _him_ standing there, just looking down at him.

His frustration bubbles up anew. His jaw tightens and he closes his eyes again. "_What_?" he bites.

"I have it on good authority that Brady Jenkins has a small penis."

Dean opens his eyes and squints at this boy, slack-jawed. He has no idea what the response to something like that should be. He's shocked completely off his game by it. The boy's unblinking gaze slides from Dean, out to the grounds of the school, scanning effortlessly.

"How the fuck would you know anything about that football shithead's _dick_?" Dean jibes with rough implication.

The boy looks down at him, face impassive, but his cobalt eyes are strong and sharp. They say a million things Dean can't begin to untangle. Caught in their gaze, Dean feels oddly small. Like he's trapped in a storm and didn't realize it until it was too late. He's never before felt powerless in the presence of someone he could easily beat to a pulp.

Across the yard there is shuffling and a stifled girlish laugh. Both boys glance over to see two girls looking at them, whispering, trying and failing to hide it.

Dean looks away, ripping a piece of grass from the earth. And then another. He rolls the blades of grass between his fingers as his frustration boils over into something more like self-loathing. He can't get through a single day without nearly getting into it with someone. God knows he tries, he's not a bad guy, really. When he feels the prickling at the back of his neck he's brought out of his introspective pity-party and back to reality, cheeks heating when he realizes the kid is staring again with his stormy-blue eyes. In an attempt not to get caught in them Dean turn his gaze angrily to the grass in his hand.

"What is it with you people? It's like, every time I come in here I got all eyes on me."

The blue-eyed boy is quiet for a moment before he responds coolly, "Some studies say that only 2% of people in the world have green eyes."

Dean looks up at him again, surprised, and finds him staring back with such focus that it almost makes him fold up on himself.

"It causes for a kind of magnetism," the boy explains when Dean says nothing. "In a subtle way, you'd always stand out, no matter where you went, even when you'd rather not."

"Right, sure. Guess I'll wear sunglasses," Dean mutters, looking down at his boots, his heart oddly finicky in his chest of a sudden. Some distant part of his brain is adamantly trying to point out that this guy _knows the color of his eyes_.

"You would still stand out," the boy says flatly, and before Dean can turn his head to respond the other boy is walking away.

Dean isn't sure if it is an insult or a compliment, but the inside of his chest burns regardless. He feels kind of raw. _Seen_, for the first time, instead of merely _glanced_ at.

As he watches him walk away Dean sees him move through the crowd gathering outside for lunch period. People don't acknowledge him. They move out of his way, and if they look at him, it is with a respectful apathy. But no one calls out his name, no one bumps him or teases him or hugs him. He is neither liked nor disliked.

He simply exists among them, but not a part of them. And for a split-second, Dean dares to wonder if maybe he's not one of a kind after all.


	3. Chapter Three - Homelife

_Thanks for the follows and reviews! _

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**Chapter Three - Homelife.**

John's return is brief and useless, if thankfully booze-free.

Working for weeks on end with no break in order to support two growing boys that he never gets to see is wearing a hole in John where his tact and patience used to be. And though he loves them, though he does all of this _for them_, Sam and Dean bear the brunt that disintegration.

John hasn't been in a good mood in going on six years. Not since...

Dean tries not to think about his mom. About how everything would be different. About how things would be so much better for Sam and for his Dad. They'd be happy. Sam could know what it was like when John would play catch, and flip pancakes and make jokes.

Currently the only thing John flips is their coffee table when he's raging about one thing or another, and the only thing he makes for them is a meagre paycheck and trouble with the landlord.

Dean tries to make things easier. He cares for Sam so John doesn't have to worry, and he stays out of his way as much as he can. He still remembers when things were good. When John was worth the _World's Best Dad_ mug. He doesn't think that version of his father is dead and gone, just heartbroken and tired. And he misses him enough to do whatever he needs to in the hopes they might find him again.

Dean used to think about his mom a lot. Thinking of her was painful but it also helped him get through that first year, when he was ten, or maybe just turned eleven, he can't remember anymore, and John just completely lost it. His mother was a warm reminder of safety and certainty and love on those nights when he was left alone and cold in a foreclosed-on house with a newborn he had no hopes of knowing how to care for. The memory of Mary and the tearful humming of _Hey Jude_ got Dean and baby Sammy through that. But the more distance that comes between him and the days when Mary was alive the more pain he feels when he thinks of her, then looks at his father. He's not the man in the carefully-hoarded wedding photo Dean keeps tucked away under Sam's mattress. It makes Dean sad, the contrast between the ghost sharing their apartment and the man John used to be, so mostly he hopes John will stay away, despite knowing that's cruel.

The good thing about John being home is not just the paycheck he brings with him, but the way he indulges Sammy. It's forced, it takes a lot out of John, but Sam can't tell that. Even if Dean can. Even if he can see the reservation of sadness as John picks the boy up and kisses his cheek and tries so hard to listen as Sam tells him all about school. Tries to be an active parent. Tries to be soft.

John is trying.

But everything is just so hard. And Dean knows exactly how that feels. So he doesn't test him, doesn't lash out or rebel like some teens would. He tries to do exactly what is needed of him exactly when it's needed, and the rest of the time be invisible.

John is only there for three days, much of which is spent getting some much needed sleep, before he's back out on the next contract. Freelance construction and dock-work are like that - you take it where you can get it. The night before the morning John is supposed to leave they are all sitting around the table eating some chicken and rice Dean fried up in the pan. That's when John turns to Dean and asks, "How're things here?"

And the question seems simple enough, but Dean knows how John works. Because it's how he works too. John never says outright that he's thinking something, that he's worried or frustrated or suspicious. Dean has to parse it all through subtext, through tone and the feeling he gets when John asks a seemingly simple question, but twirls his fork in that slow, deliberate, unconscious way that says he's toiling with something. Some doubt.

"Fine," Dean answers carefully, with a nonchalant nod.

John nods, fork still making its slow rotations, "No trouble or nothin?"

Dean shakes his head _no_.

John turns to Sam, "You had any visitors here at the house?" He's asking Sam, but his eyes are tracking Dean like a hawk, suspicious and sharp.

Dean swallows hard. He knows he hasn't done anything wrong, hasn't had anyone around, but that look always makes him nervous regardless.

Sam shakes his head, answering _No_ honestly around a mouthful of food, completely oblivious to the tension.

"Be sure it stays that way," John warns, eyes leveled at Dean.

"Yes sir."


	4. Chapter Four - Tagalong

**Chapter Four - Tagalong.**

Dean's always liked to spend his lunches in the bleachers.

It's a lot less claustrophobic than the nightmare of the cafeteria - a room originally intended for half the number of students now expected to lunch there. And the complex social rituals of the pecking-order of seating is enough to give him a nosebleed. He doesn't have anyone to sit with. And he knows if he grabs a random seat, other students will stay a seat away out of discomfort, therefore creating a wave of discontent at the three empty seats surrounding him, one on either side of him and one across, being wasted by his obviously unwanted presence.

No one will bother him when he lays down in the bleachers, he won't be in anyone's way. And besides, from here he can hear the band practicing, and he likes the noise of it. The chaos that evolves into music. He might have liked to have been in the band. Drums maybe. Yes, definitely. Quads, they're the coolest. He lets himself daydream. There's no one to interrupt anyway since the burners mostly keep to themselves and they are the only other people ever out here.

Usually.

Dean's ears are focused on a distant trumpet-wail of _Louie Louie_, his head resting on his folded up jacket, cold metal bleacher pressed along the center of his back, finger tapping against the back of his other hand, both resting on his chest when he feels it. _Him_. He sighs and opens his eyes, already irritated. And there he is - loose-fitting jeans and dark sweater, messy hair and overly relaxed posture, sitting on the bleacher just in front of Dean's. Facing away from him.

"What're you a friggin' ninja? How do I never hear you coming?" Dean asks as though the boy has disturbed him from a very important nap.

The boy says nothing, but Dean can see him give a slight smile as he looks away to the side, focusing on something far in the distance. Dean can't help but notice the striking nature of his profile - light skin, dark eyebrows and lashes, wide lips cracking the slightest smirk, high cheekbones and barely-there stubble. He is, in his own odd way, very beautiful.

Dean straightens out, shoving his head back onto his jacket somewhat roughly, and closes his eyes again, forcing that thought away.

"So, creep, why you followin' me?" He hears the boy shrug and huffs in frustration.

A one-sided conversation with someone whose attention he very much did not seek is not Dean's idea of a relaxing lunch period. And he'll be damned if he's going to stress-out over making the talking happen when he didn't even want company to begin with. So he lays there. Stubbornly silent. Definitely not able to nap knowing the other guy is there. Too distracted by the knowledge to get any enjoyment out of the band's music. Every once in awhile a breeze will blow the faintest whisper of a clean, masculine scent directly into Dean's senses and he breathes it deep despite himself. The urge to do so only making him more frustrated.

When the bell finally rings, Dean hefts himself up with a huff and throws his jacket back on, seeing that the other boy is standing on the stair, watching, waiting for him.

Dean is thrown off by that.

Instead of joining the other boy on the stairs, Dean decides to take the long strides down the bleachers themselves. It's a clearer _get away from me_ than if he'd opened his mouth to say it point blank. But when he hops down off the last bleacher, the other boy is already there, standing relaxed at the bottom of the bleachers and regarding Dean calmly. Expectantly almost. Dean squints at him before turning and walking back toward the school in long strides, the strange boy keeping up, staying by his side. He doesn't realize it when he starts to slow down, making it a little less difficult for the oddly contented boy at his side to keep up. When they get to the school's door they head their separate ways to their respective classes, and Dean shakes his head as if there's water in his ears, because he would like very much to ignore the fact that his heart is beating too fast.


	5. Chapter Five - Tagalong II

_Thanks for the reviews and follows! Reviews make me very happy. _

_Sorry for any typos, etc. Multitasking whilst posting chapters can be dangerous for grammar. _

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**Chapter Five - Tagalong II**

It's gonna be one of those days. Clearly.

It's barely third period and Dean has been publicly berated for tardiness; sent to the office for 'loitering' in the halls and naturally ignoring the teacher who demanded an explanation; his stomach has been grumbling since he woke up this morning and realized there was only enough cereal for one and he watched Sammy eat it with no idea when he was gonna have time to get more before tomorrow; Mrs. Tran just called to tell him that she can't bring Sam home after school so now Dean knows he's gonna have to ditch; and the Captain of the football team is giving him some seriously unnecessary 80's-movie-vibe hate from across the room. Every class he does go to is a woeful reminder of how far behind the other students he is, only partially by his own doing. There's just too much to do, in every damn day, for him to have to give a shit about the proper longhand calculation of the circumference of a circle. He has no doubt he _could_ do it, if he had the time. But he doesn't. Which leaves him feeling angry and like a complete dunce all at the same time.

All of this is topped off very nicely by that fact that the creep with the pretty blue eyes has been like his fucking shadow all week.

So Dean isn't all that surprised when he leaves the school early, sneaking past the security guard and out to the parking lot to find the sinewy, suburban boy leaning against the Impala. Like he fucking _belongs_ there. But it is the last straw.

"Get the fuck off my car."

The boy pushes off the car, utterly unintimidated by Dean's obvious anger. Dean blows right past him, getting in and slamming the door. He's too caught up in himself to notice when the boy slides around to the driver's side window. When he taps on the glass, Dean jumps, jolting embarrassingly. He sees the blue-eyed boy leaning over, staring at him with that almost-smile, waiting for Dean to roll down the window. For some reason, he does.

"What?" he bites.

"I need a ride."

"School's not over. Go back to class," Dean demands condescendingly. The boy gives him a harsh look. Reprimanding. Dean feels oddly cowed, and sighs, trying to cover it. "Fine, get in."

The boy smiles, and hurries around the other side, getting in quickly. Dean starts the roaring engine and puts her in drive, glad every time he hears her purr that his Dad finally left the Impala behind. Having a car makes his daily life immeasurably easier. It's the only luxury he's willing to bother his father for. He misses that car, like homesickness, when John takes her away. The idea of letting someone inside her, some stranger, is bizarrely intimate for Dean. He glances over and sees that the other boy has settled into the car quite nicely. He almost looks right, sitting across from him, brushing his fingertips slowly over the details of the door.

"Where you need to go?" Dean asks, trying to make it sound light. But his voice is tight around the lump of nerves in his throat.

The boy shrugs, that calm almost-smile holding fast. "Anywhere on your way is fine."

Dean shoots him a look, brows furrowed. He sees the other boy is staring ahead out the windshield, that vague smile on his face, completely unconcerned.

"God you're fuckin' weird," Dean mutters, eyes going back to the road.

"Where are you headed?" the boy asks casually.

"None a your business, creep," Dean answers easily. He doesn't need some random guy knowing about Sam.

The boy seems undeterred by the insult, and by Dean's tone. "This car is..." He seems to choose his next words wisely, running a hand across the door reverently. Dean waits in anticipation, fully prepared to defend his car's honor. It was, after all, his home for the first two years of Sammy's life. Dean changed more diapers than he can count right there in the back seat. The other boy settles into his seat, smiling appreciatively, "It's comfortable."

That's not what Dean was expecting, and he is quickly realizing, that nothing with this guy is. Every time Dean assumes he knows what this kid is gonna say, he comes out with something Dean never would have guessed. And while Dean doesn't like being unsure, he doesn't like when anything in his daily routine has a big question mark written all over it, there's something like _interest_, deep curiosity, knotting in his gut whenever he looks at this blue-eyed boy.

There is a long silence wherein they simply ride together, the other boy seemingly relaxed, comfortable saying nothing and being alone with Dean, virtually a complete stranger. Dean however is suffering every second of this silence that he feels is full of some bizarre electricity. He's never been good at awkward silences.

"Look, I don't wanna leave you just... _anywhere_. Where can I drop you?"

The other boy answers evenly, "Wherever."

"Listen creep-"

"Cas."

"What?"

"My name," the boy clarifies. "What they call me," he offers sarcastically. "Cas."

"Oh..." Dean isn't sure why it stops him up to know his name. "Well, listen _Cas_, I can't just-"

"And you are?" Cas interrupts as though he cannot believe he has to do so.

There is a moment of hesitation. Almost as if Dean doesn't want to give his name, (while he has a mini existential crisis over realizing how long it's been since someone bothered to ask him his name and how he's guarded his anonymity for so long) but he does, quietly. "Dean."

Cas nods as if in approval and Dean can't help but shake his head in confounded frustration.

"The bus stop a few blocks ahead will be fine."

Dean can only nod. They drive in silence until Dean pulls over to the curb and Cas moves to get out without another word. And that is just too much for Dean. Too bizarre. "Uh... Ok," Dean calls out instead of _Goodbye_ and in lieu of anything else to say.

Cas turns and looks back at him, face unreadably stoic for a moment as he assesses Dean before, inexplicably, he smiles.

Dean has the strangest desire to smile back.

He pulls away from the curb and takes a much-needed breath. In his mirror he can see Cas standing still as a statue at the bus stop and he has the even stranger, even stronger desire to go back for him. The passenger seat feels startlingly empty. He tilts his mirror up and hits the gas.


	6. Chapter Six - Invisible

**Chapter Six - Invisible**

He's sitting on top of the trunk of the Impala before school, trying to decide whether to hand in his half-completed homework, or just leave it in the back of the car like so many of the others he didn't have time for. He's barely handed anything in all quarter, why bother with one half-done assignment now? Still, he's tempted to give it just so they know he's still in the class.

His thoughts are interrupted when he feels the car dip with the added presence of another person. He looks up from his assignment to see Cas, sitting beside him as if it's a normal occurrence, picking absently at a fleck of dirt on his jeans.

Dean is too taken aback by his gall to muster any protest. He simply stares at him.

Then Cas' eyes find his and Dean's chest constricts. He looks back down to his paper. Dean crumples the assignment and tosses it toward a trash can. It bounces off of the edge and the two boys stare absently over at it until the first warning bell rings signifying the start of school in five minutes. Cas hops off the Impala and picks up the balled-up paper, un-crinkling it. Dean almost protests, but before he can find his voice, Cas is eyeing it empirically, head tilted to one side.

Dean can feel his heart thudding, and he doesn't know why the Hell he's nervous.

"This is all right," Cas states evenly. "Correct, I mean to say."

Dean says nothing.

"You're quite good at this," he adds as an afterthought, smoothing out the paper to see more of the equations. After a moment more studying the work, Cas walks up to Dean holding out the assignment.

Dean looks at him a moment, really looks at him, takes in the furrow of his dark brows and the strong set of his blue eyes. He's confident, in his way. Almost intimidatingly so, despite his pilled sweater and thin frame and porcelin-pale skin with the pretty face. Cas isn't just cocky like Dean, he's got a solid self-awareness that is worthy of respect and alarmingly attractive. Dean drops his eyes down to the paper, embarrassed by his own thoughts. Slowly he reaches out and takes the paper back. And while he does Cas' nimble hand comes forward and plucks Dean's phone right out of his breast pocket.

Dean makes a half-formed sound of argument, but it is cut off when Cas swats his hand away as Dean reaches to get it back. All of Cas' focus goes into whatever he is typing out.

The second bell rings and Cas hands back the phone turning and walking away toward the school without another word.

He looks down at his phone to see his new contact, added as _Cas_. One number dialed and then immediately hung up - Cas'. Now the blue-eyed creep has his number. _Great_. Dean isn't sure why he feels relieved. He pretends, for himself, that he doesn't.

When Dean hands in his wrinkled, half-complete assignment the teacher looks at him as though she really had forgotten all about him. She is so used to walking right past his desk. She takes the paper and glances over it briefly and looks back at him, a look on her face that told him that she was both impressed, and trying to figure out where the fuck he's been for the last months.

Dean isn't sure if he is proud, or if he feels worse than ever.

Apparently he'd succeeded in making himself invisible.


	7. Chapter Seven - Saturdays

**Chapter Seven - Saturdays**

By all accounts Saturday should be a day off. But it's not. Dean's got a small child to take care of, and though Saturday is considered the weekend, it sure as Hell isn't a day off. Because Sam has no school, and he requires a lot of attention. Well, maybe he doesn't require it, but Dean likes for him to have it. So Saturdays for Dean mean getting Sam to this practice or that practice and coming through on promises to see spaceship movies and dinosaur exhibits.

It's not as relaxing as he imagines a real day off would be, but it's still the best part of his week.

Dean's always prided himself on being able to suspend his little brother's disbelief, to turn mediocre daily chores and generally persistent poverty into an adventure. He turns the laundromat into their Space Cadet HQ, the public bus into a submarine, the sun-bleached, craggy sidewalks of their neighborhood into a kingdom, a familiar place where Sam feels safe as long as Dean is beside him. Saturdays are for adventures, for all of Dean's hardened edges to smooth themselves out again, for acting young, as though he could afford it. Sam is exhausting, as is any child. But he is a balm to the strain in Dean's shoulders where he carries their combined familial weight.

The museum is free today, thank god, and Sam is so excited to see the dinosaur bones that he can barely keep still. He reads every placard to Dean in his stunted childish way, always looking back at his brother to make sure Dean heard, to see if Dean is as excited as him. And Dean smiles because he loves Sam's enthusiasm and he feels like a genius for finding a way to get him to practice his reading all day. He knows Sam's leagues ahead of the other kids in his class, and he's unmeasurably proud. Sam drags Dean by the hand through every room. When they've finished Dean gets on his knees to better button up Sammy's coat, all the while his little brother is rambling on about how dinosaurs are really just like birds and if pigeons were bigger maybe they would eat people. He takes Sam's hand as they walk outside, and there's an unseasonable chill in the air. He buys hotdogs at the stand for the two of them and leads them over to the park. There are benches facing the more urban part of town and Dean likes to sit there and see all the bustling of life happening around them. Busy people with busy lives, getting by on a little - just like them. Today there is some event on the stone steps of the church just across the road. Their choir are all out there, singing and smiling. Like they believe what they sing. Like they couldn't be happier to raise their voices together. He and Sam sit on their bench, and even after they've finished their hot dogs they stay to listen. Sam watches, captivated, and Dean soaks in every harmony and every soulful musical lilt. It strikes him as being very beautiful. Dean's not usually one for church tunes, but there's something nice about it. And music is music. _That_ Dean can appreciate.

He looks down to his side and takes in the sight of Sammy watching them, and it's one of those moments Dean knows will stick with him. Because Sam is precious to him and today he feels like he's done right by him.

Of course, like all small children, when Sam gets tired, he's pretty much done. He leans heavily against Dean's side at the bus stop as though he can't entirely hold himself up. Dean is certain that if he were to sidestep suddenly, his brother would topple to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

"Why don't we have the car?" he whines into Dean's sleeve.

"We never bring the car downtown. You know that. Nowhere to put her."

Dean doesn't bother to mention that gas is a terrifying four seventeen a gallon and he's barely got enough money to make it through next week.

On the bus ride home Dean is staring out the window, but not really looking at the city as it trudges by, Sam asleep against his side. His cellphone buzzes and for a moment he isn't sure what's happening. No one ever calls unless it's Mrs. Tran (which it shouldn't be, because Sam is sitting right beside him) or his father. He digs the phone out of his pocket and flips it open, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

_Cas: What are you doing during third period tomorrow?_

Dean considers not responding. Briefly. But ultimately, answering a question asked is instinct, and his thumbs are clicking away before he's sure what to say.

_Dean: Sposed to be at gym. Why?_

_Cas: Meet me in BioLab seven on the third floor._

Dean doesn't respond. He doesn't know if he's going to go.


	8. Chapter Eight - Secret Garden

_Posting quickly! I apologize for any mistakes! Thanks so much for the support so far. It's super-motivating._

* * *

**Chapter Eight - Secret Garden**

Dean climbs up to the third floor, the stairwells thankfully mostly vacant now that third period has officially begun. His hands are shaking a bit, though he doesn't dare to acknowledge why. He shakes them hard once, then balls them up. He walks quietly down the hallway, not wanting to be spotted, and turns the corner seeing the first of the BioLabs, his eyes tracking door after door. Room 4. Room 5. Room 6...

Then he's at the corner, slowing as he realizes he is about to end up at one again, no Room Seven to be found. Dean looks behind him, double checking, and feeling embarrassed and toyed-with when he feels himself turning about like a compass facing a magnet. He feels oddly hurt, thinking that Cas, this bizarre stranger, the only one who shows any kind of interest in him (strange though his focus on Dean is) might be just like everyone else who just wanted to fuck with him for the hell of it.

But before he can stew any longer he feels a hand on his bicep and he jumps, turning to see the stoic blue-eyed boy standing there. Very much inside his personal bubble.

Dean gives him a disapproving glare for sneaking up on him, which Cas entirely ignores in favor of dragging Dean across the hall, to the darkened corner where a dingy, _locked_ janitor's closet is located. Dean watches curiously, eyes glancing back over his shoulders in either direction, as Cas first tries the door, finds it is locked, and then pulls a massive key-ring out of his jeans. The kind the janitorial staff carry around clanging from their belts. Dean's can feel his eyebrows raise. He is both shocked, and impressed. Cas was odd, sure. And he didn't seem to have too much concern for what others might think of him. But _this_, was outright unexpected.

Cas sifts easily through the keys, seeming to know which one he is looking for. He unlocks the door and pushes in, holding it open for Dean who is all too happy to disappear from the hallway where any student or teacher could catch them at any moment.

The room is dim and stuffy, smelling of old text books and eraser dust. But it is deceptively large, the size of any other classroom, which tilts Dean's brain off its axis for a moment, as his eyes adjust and he takes in the room's dimensions. The windows lining the wall opposite him are mostly covered in what seems to be paper yellowed by time. But it lets in enough light for Dean to take in his surroundings. This is definitely not a Janitor's closet. It really is another Lab, with heavy granite countertop Lab tables and a rusting metal teacher's desk in the corner. Everything is covered in a heavy dust. He doesn't realize he's staring around with his mouth open until Cas speaks.

"The technology is too old to be used. Too expensive to be replaced. Can't have sixteen year olds playing with gas and fire; rusted, outdated burners and rotted hoses. So they closed down the room so there was no liability. It's been in the plans to make use of it for years, but..." he shrugs, looking around. The sight is obviously familiar to him, though he assesses it carefully nonetheless, like a groundskeeper would a well-maintained garden.

"I didn't even know this was here," Dean admits wandering over to one of the tall Lab counters. "Thought it was a Janitor's closet."

Cas smirks, and Dean looks away sharply when the sight makes his stomach feel fluttery. "Everyone does," Cas strokes one of the countertops reverently. "The Janitor is new," he states to Dean evenly. "And he was never given a key to this room. So... It's mine now."

Dean blinks at him. "How do _you_ have a key?"

Cas smirks at him again and Dean can't help it, he smirks back.

"It's a corner room," Cas tells him, ignoring his question. "Dead space on both sides. Nothing but outside wall," he points to the two walls with windows covered in yellowed, taped-up paper. "That's the Chem Lab," he says pointing toward the far wall and realizing that the Chem Lab is in fact its neighbor. Dean knows the Chem Lab is rarely used. "No one can hear us," Cas tells him with a strange note of confidence.

Dean's throat feels tight, he tries to swallow but only succeeds in making dry clicking noises in his throat.

"As long as the lights stay off, no one will find us." Cas takes an appraising gander at the room, "It is my... Secret Garden."

Dean has to snort at that. But then he looks at Cas, and realizes that for some reason, Dean is the only person he wants to know about his hideaway. "Pretty awesome," Dean offers out of a kindness the root of which he is adamantly _not_ examining.

Cas nods, admiring the space. "Most of the time, I'd rather be here." When Dean's silence implies the _Why?_ Cas continues, "It's quiet. Nothing feels forced. No eyes watching." He turns to Dean, knowing the boy will remember their first conversation.

And Dean does. "What do you do in here?" he asks curiously.

"Whatever I want."

"Like?"

"Read. Sleep. Schoolwork. Watch tv on my brother's Ipad."

Another stifling silence.

Cas seems completely unbothered by the deafening quiet between them. Dean can hear himself breathing, hear his heart beating, and the silence makes him uneasy. "What do you watch?" Dean asks just to say something, and then immediately regrets it. Whenever kids at school talk about the shows they watch, the trending stuff, he always feels defensive and excluded. Their crappy tv only gets two channels, one of which is PBS. He's never been able to watch what's _cool_.

Castiel pulls his backpack around to his front and fishes out the ipad. "It's called Friday the 13th," he states coolly, flipping the thing open.

"Oh cool. Like the movie." Dean doesn't have a lot of cinematic preferences, but he has always appreciated horror.

"No," Castiel deadpans.

Dean blinks at him. "...Ok."

Castiel frowns with concentration at the ipad's screen, tapping and swooshing away. "It's a Canadian television series from the 1980s," he tells Dean, his voice going a little deeper with the concentration of multi-tasking. "They only gave it that name to capitalize on the success of the movie. The show has absolutely no relation to the movie. Other than, I suppose, that you could class it somewhere in the horror genre."

Dean cocks his head, "That's -"

"Utterly ridiculous, yes."

Cas drops his backpack altogether, removes his windbreaker and settles onto the floor in a far corner of the room as if it is his predetermined nesting place. He folds the ipad's cover into a triangle so that it can stand on its own and he painstakingly places it at just the right spot before him. When, after he's done all that, Dean is still unmoved across the room staring at him blankly, Castiel gives him an indignantly expectant look.

Somehow, it effects Dean. So much so, that Dean's crossed the room to sit beside Cas before he rationally realizes he's doing so.

Cas says nothing, merely settles down comfortably and brings up youtube, pressing play on the cued video. It takes a few minutes for Dean to be able to work out the real-life scenario he has found himself in, and only _after_ that can he actually absorb the atrocity onscreen before them.

At the end of the first episode, Castiel merely turns and looks at him. "It is very Canadian," he says after a moment.

"It's very _eighties_," Dean jokes, eyes glued to the freeze frame of the lead woman in all her shoulder-padded, perm-teased glory.

Cas smiles at him and Dean feels light as air. He doesn't think he's ever seen the kid actually smile, unhindered by that shield of coyness he seems to carry around himself. It's... nice. It's _real_.

Cas blushes, as though to share an interest, even one as simple as an old tv show, is something intimate and new. "It's entirely ridiculous," he admits, that honest smile shyer but persisting. "I like it," he admits with a shrug.

He pressed play on the next episode, and then the next, and Dean had to admit he was right. The episodes were often cheesy and contrived, the quality about what you'd expect for a moderately budgeted tv show from the late eighties. But for some reason, they couldn't stop watching.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, laughing at every horrible line, every insane special effect, every totally unnecessary gruesome death. Dean could feel the leather of his jacket rubbing against Cas' sleeve. Halfway through the third episode he takes his jacket off, and he can feel Cas' warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt.

When the bell rings for a third time, signaling almost four hours lost to their secret room, Castiel sighs heavily. He reluctantly gets up.

"AP Physics," he states plainly. "Can't miss it."

"You missed everything else." Dean is kicking himself as soon as the words are out. He pretty much sounds like he's asking Cas to stay.

"I didn't have anything else," Cas says flatly.

Dean simply squints at him and waits for an explanation.

"All of my credits are complete. Have been since the end of last year. My classes now, whilst impressive on a College application, are entirely superfluous."

Dean's mouth is stuck open. He is impressed. All this time he's been nervous that Cas might be a little... off. And it turns out he is a savant. "_Well_... Smartypants," Dean teases, but it comes out sounding odd.

"I could have graduated. But, my father thought it unseemly. Boastful. Remarkably odd, he thought, to want to leave my high school in my senior year. Not to mention, he didn't feel it appropriate to have me attending college away from him, being so _young_," Cas' voice is dry, and yet still so dripping with disdain. "_Impressionable_. He thinks I'm... unfinished. Not successfully moulded in his image yet. And the influences of the outside world are... scandalous in their number."

He gathers his things, leaving Dean to awkwardly do the same, shrugging on his coat while thinking abut how much studying it must take to finish high school an entire year early. What Cas' dad must be like.

Cas hefts on his backpack and turns to face Dean fully. "I'll be here again tomorrow," he states evenly, face carefully passive. "I might leave the door unlocked. During third period," he says, stares at Dean a good long moment, and then leaves.

Dean stares after him, motionless, until he is about to collapse against the Lab table thinking so hard about the fact that he's just spent four hours hanging out with _the creep._ But then he is startled upright by the door abruptly opening. His heart lurches -

It's Cas, back again. He demands quickly, "Lock the door on your way out." Then he is gone again.

And Dean can't help but shake his head and smile. He actually kind of likes this kid, in all his abrupt strangeness, and it's been a long time since Dean's let himself like anyone. Maybe it'd be nice, to have a friend.

* * *

_Ok so, _Friday the 13th_ the Canadian television series is real. I shit you not. It is on youtube and it is ridiculous and dramatic and weirdly incestuous (no, you didn't read that wrong) and hilarious. My friend introduced me to it last winter when we were snowed-in. We binged like an entire season of that craziness. I'd never heard of it, couldn't imagine where he had. He said he remembered it from when he was a kid._

_If only so that I can know I've forced this upon more people, check it out in all it's pre-_Supernatural_ glory - if you have a sec and want to see what the boys are watching - and lemme know if you've discovered this weirdness too! There's deals with devils, cursed objects, and an older, wiser, grumpier mentor/father figure. One of the leads is a devil-may-care goofball, and the other is an emotional, sincere, "I'm trying to get this over with and back to my normal life" type. Yeah. Bizarro-world._

_(Tell me you can't imagine pensive, stoic Cas sitting there in his sweater watching the shit out of this with a look of deep concentration on his face whilst Dean looks from the screen to Cas like WTF?)_

_Sorry for the massive post-script. *blushes furiously over her unbridled enthusiasm*_


	9. Chapter Nine- Repetition Breeds Normalcy

_This chapter was intended to be choppy, hope it reads ok. __As always, I apologize for any grammatical 'WTF's. _

_Thank you so much to you guys who reviewed. Much snuggles to you. (But regular snuggles, not the fabric softener bear snuggles - that little bitch is creepy.)_

* * *

**Chapter Nine - With Enough Repetition, Anything Can Become Normal**

Dean doesn't allow himself to acknowledge that he's actually looking forward to a repeat of the _Lab Seven Incident_, as his brain has secretly coined it, until he's on the bus home that night, finds himself smiling like an idiot, and is incapable of holding it back any longer. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have a good day at school. He nearly misses his stop because he's thinking about him, Cas - the strange boy with the curiously calm demeanor and obvious resentment for his father, blue eyes and moon-pale skin and dark, soft-looking sweaters that always hang just a little too long in the arms. Like maybe they belong to someone taller. Dean's never been so fascinated by another person. He finds people generally interesting, but the curiosity he has for Cas is new and strong. He is... interested. He wants to know more. And that is somewhat scary, because Dean's been so insular for so long, made it his business not to need anyone if he could help it. The idea of having a friend is terrifying and foreign. And moreso, what he feels for Cas is distinctly visceral in a way Dean fears normal friendship is not.

He'd felt Cas' proximity in the warmth of his cheeks, the clammy tremble of his hands, the dry click of his throat as he tried to swallow down the thunderous beating of his heart. Physiological responses piled on top of one another as a result of merely sitting beside Cas, and Dean is not an idiot. But he is in denial. He has to be.

Dean has trepidation and excitement over meeting this person, over knowing things about him he did not know yesterday. A distant and watery part of his imagination dreams of knowing it all - the sound of Cas' laugh, the smell of his skin, his hopes, his hates, his father's name, his story. But all of Dean's excitement is tinged with the fear that he's reading way too much into all of it. That this Cas guy is just a weirdo and he doesn't really want to be Dean's friend, that he doesn't have nearly the amount of bubbling feelings about the prospect of hanging out again as Dean does. Which Dean knows, resolutely, makes him a loser.

But regardless, there's no way he can help from going back again. He's going to take Cas' offer at face value, despite his instincts, and tomorrow he's going to go back to Room Seven. He's hopeful, oddly hopeful, and as he walks home in the warm summery dusk, brain cataloguing the cracks and gum stains in the sidewalk, he can't help but send a silent prayer up to whoever's out there that this Cas kid is for real.

* * *

The morning is a blur.

Much to his brother's surprise, Dean had no trouble getting up and ready this morning.

Dean isn't surprised, per se, that when he hauls ass up to Room Seven after a jittery first two periods, Cas is already nestled into his corner, eyes focused on the ipad's screen, brow furrowed. But Dean is glad, the doubting part of him quieted momentarily. Maybe a little too relieved.

Cas doesn't even bother to look up, like Dean's coming into the room is not only expected, but already commonplace. For some reason, this makes it easier for Dean. Easier to drop his bookbag, shed his coat, and settle in beside the boy. Easier to pretend to be collected, while his heart is banging in his chest and throat.

* * *

The third day Dean shows up at Room Seven, he doesn't stop himself from smiling. And some self-aware recess of his consciousness tells him that this is new, that Dean is almost, kind of... happy. Like a normal teenaged boy who has no reason not to smile, not to be pleased just for the hell of it. Or at least, he's shed that hard edge that he sharpens for the public in the wake of finding a nook of ease in a place where he's always felt watched, judged, hardened out of some undetermined necessity.

Cas does watch him, often. But he doesn't appear to judge him. Doesn't find his easy smirk as cause for assumption that he is weak, doesn't tease him or treat him like some idiot kid or call him fag.

Somewhere in that consciousness lurks the usual fears, the constant warnings not to show any kind of vulnerability. It's a dark but commonplace thought that reminds him he's someone's caretaker, he's man of the house, and that childish grins are for childish boys. His father's words echo in those shadows, reminds him that life can be unmeasurably hard. Reminds him to be careful, always careful, lest the world take even the smallest scraps of himself that Dean dares to offer and twists them apart. But in this small, safe place that Cas has provided, Dean feels like he is free. He can hide here, from everyone, even from his own self.

It only took three days for Dean to truly smile. And Cas didn't think any less of him.

* * *

Cas is punctual and consistent. And Dean appreciates the feeling of confidence that comes with knowing the person you expect to be there, actually will be.

* * *

A few nights after their meetings become enough in number to safely be considered a regular thing, Dean gets a text.

Their daily indulgences follow much in the same way as that first day Cas brought Dean into his secret room, and Dean merely continues showing up every day at third period. Cas continues to greet him with an impatient gesture to come over and sit down. They watch their show and sit quietly together and just barely rub shoulders. Things with Cas are quiet and calm and strikingly easy though Dean's heart is often in his throat. Cas isn't a big talker, but it's ok, because neither is he. Sometimes he feels the urge to speak, and it's almost painful in its demand. The unreasonable want to give parts of himself to Cas - thoughts, opinions, truths. But Dean fights it. He isn't sure yet, if he should risk ruining this by opening his stupid mouth.

Cas also, as Dean has learned, is not a big texter. The receiving of any communication from the boy at all shocks Dean. Which is why he jumps like some kind of maniac when he feels his phone buzz in his pants pocket. He rips the phone out of the denim clumsily, like it's life or death. Sam looks over at him, blinking with big hazel eyes. Dean sticks his tongue out and Sam laughs. Dean motions for him to get back to his schoolwork. When he's satisfied his little brother's attention is otherwise satisfied, Dean flips open the crappy plastic phone letting out a slow, calming exhale.

_Cas: Second period tomorrow. _

is all it says. And then a moment later,

_Cas: Art has become tedious. I've decided I'm not going to go._

Dean can't help the smile that spreads across his face before he dutifully deletes the messages.

It doesn't occur to him that he's long since made up his mind to keep seeing Cas. It is a subtle transition, perhaps, because the decision never needed making.


	10. Chapter Ten - Thoughts

**Chapter Ten - Thoughts**

Dean laughs thinking about something Cas said. Something blandly straight-forward that really shouldn't be funny, but it is, because it's him. It's the way he says it, the look on his face. There's something priceless about the bizarre way that Cas relates to the world. He's sort of fathomless, complicated but simple all at once. Dean spends more time than he'd care to admit thinking about their steadily increasing conversations. They're both stingy with their words by nature, which makes everything Cas says that much more important.

Dean shakes his head, smile on his face as he thinks about the way Cas argues simple things with even simpler logic. Dean likes to be adversary just to watch him tilt his head in rebuttal with some statement so perfectly _Cas_. And he feels a special electric warmth when he knows Cas has finally realized that Dean is screwing with him and merely levels him with a stormy look that could set anyone else's hair on edge. But Dean is immune somehow, because he _feels_ that Cas isn't really mad.

At everyone else maybe, at his father definitely, but never at him. And Dean is addicted to that electric warmth of certainty, the miracle that somehow he's different than everyone else.

Dean is plucked from his own thoughts when he sees the blur of bright colors and the pulling away of minivans that signify the kids have been released from school. He looks out the window of the Impala to see little Sammy bounding toward the car, smiling and waving when he sees Dean's face. He waves back, reaching over to unlock the door. Sam shoves his overfilled backpack into the car and climbs in after it. Dean knows he should put the kid in the back seat, but it's only a few blocks. He doesn't have the heart to tell his little man to get out and get in the back. Not today. He chuckles as his little brother intentionally avoids his eyes, though smiling, because he knows, has been told over and over, he's not big enough yet for the front seat. Sam likes to pretend he's a bigger boy than he is, likes to act like he can take care of himself and do big boy things, gets defensive sometimes when Dean doesn't let him.

Today, Dean's going to let him get away with it. But just to be safe, he takes the residential streets home. The sun is gleaming orange through the trees and glass windows of the neighborhoods and Dean glances over to see his little brother playing with the sun and shadows on his hand. He feels happy.


	11. Chapter Eleven - Catalyst

**Chapter Eleven - Catalyst: Change is Inevitable**

_Life sucks and then you die._

Dean sighs. That stupid bumper sticker has been staring at him from inside his locker all damn quarter. Whoever had this locker before him was definitely not an optimist. Dean is disappointed to say that, yeah, life does suck sometimes. Recently he's been shoved face-first into a wall by Brady the football douchebag, been reprimanded by his math teacher for actually turning in homework, because _why did he not work this hard earlier on_, and Sam's just yesterday gotten over a nasty bug that's had him puking his guts out for three days.

So Dean's missed three days of school, and is still somehow exhausted.

But life can suck all it wants, because today he's going to spend hours watching bad tv with Cas. So he's got something to look forward to.

He and Cas had gotten into a regular routine before Dean had to bow-out for a few days due to Sam's sickness. It's actually kind of amazing to Dean, how weeks had sped past, and Cas never once deviated, never once wasn't there when Dean showed up. Seeing Cas every day has brought a little relief to Dean's daily grind. Cas is quiet but unpredictable, and Dean's found that he likes listening to him reason things out. Dean's gotten uncommonly comfortable with him. He thought about him a lot while he was home with Sam, though he'd never admit to it. He thought about what it would be like to fill those empty hours of monitoring Sam, while he slept it off, with the tensionless quiet of Cas' company. Of watching wibbly PBS with him while they ate frozen pizza. He wouldn't call it a daydream, but still, he thought of him.

He feels relieved that he's not going another day without seeing him. Dean moves up the stairs as though he weighs nothing, the hop in his step belying the lack of sleep he's gotten. And it isn't until he sneaks around the corner, lets himself into their secret room, and turns to see Cas waiting for him with clear blue eyes, that he realizes he's smiling wider, more sincerely, than he has in a very long time for anyone but Sam.

Cas rises to meet him, which is odd. He smiles in that barely-there way he does, crossing the room and coming to stand a little too close. "I'm glad you're back."

"Why? D'ya miss me?" Dean asks with a cocky smirk.

Cas gives him one of his unreadable expressions, Dean completely lost for a moment in the boy's blue eyes. Then Cas does something Dean doesn't expect - Cas steps easily toward him and leans forward, pressing his lips to Dean's. An unapologetic first kiss, closed-lipped but strong and confident and perfect. His palm resting against the nape of Dean's neck, fingers brushing up into his hair, lips already confident, trying to coax Dean's open with their fist touch.

Dean's heart jumps in his throat. He pulls abruptly away, and Castiel's expression leaves no question that he had not expected rejection was even an option. And it makes Dean feel sick to his stomach. Castiel knows about him - his _proclivities_. Is it that obvious? How many others know? How many of his teachers? How many of the guys at school? John...

Dean's stomach flips as he looks at his only friend, this _boy_ - the only one who can confirm his dark secret.

Dean _knows_ his father will kill him if he finds out. Not only that Dean kissed a boy, but that he wanted to. That he's always wanted to. He knows because of the way his father ripped him from the playground as a little child after he'd kissed the cheek of a playmate, lacing their fingers together while they _played house_ in the jungle gym.

He knows because of the way his father glared at him when Dean's preteen eyes strayed to the dirty magazines on the truck-stop check-out rack - not the ones with glossy, naked, open-mouthed women, but the ones with half-naked young men, bottom lips bitten, hands reached downward. John had put hand to the back of Dean's neck, squeezing hard, commanding, "Eyes front."

Dean knows because of the way his father watched him around other boys all his life, and the way he was never comfortable with Dean having friends.

For a man who let his children do pretty much whatever they want, John sure did get angry when he came home to find Dean with a new friend, sitting on the couch or playing one on one basketball in the parking lot. He would dismiss Dean's friend, less than politely, and then watch his son silently, carefully - Dean guessed for signs that they'd been _misbehaving_.

In truth, Dean had never kissed a boy before now.

He'd touched two other boys. Both times it was fairly brief. And it was the only mature contact he'd ever indulged in.

The first, was when he was fourteen, and his friend from school came over, promptly got a boner from the movie they were watching, and seemed to know what the darkening of Dean's eyes and the way he couldn't look away from it meant. He'd told Dean he could touch it if he wanted. And Dean did, half ecstatic at the feel of it hard under the boy's khakis, and half terrified that his father would come home early and see and then they would both be dead. He rubbed at the other boy's modest arousal, touching and exploring through the fabric of his pants (for barely a full minute), and suddenly with a grunt and a jerk the boy came.

Dean smiled, a new and strange thrill of victory searing through him, his own hard-on throbbing in his jeans, and watched his friend's slow smile spread. But then, his friend was all done living in the moment and he shook his head, laughed a short laugh and got up off the couch, grabbing his coat.

Dean asked him where he was going, and his 'friend' looked over at him (for the first time since he came all over his own underwear) scanning his eyes over him, and down at the bulge in Dean's pants. Something in his eyes made Dean cringe, made him instinctually try to cover up, covering himself with his hands. The boy laughed his short laugh once more, and it sounded crueler to Dean's ears then, and said "See ya around, Dean," and left.

The way he looked at Dean was mocking, cold, and it soured Dean's stomach.

Dean was aching, but didn't let himself masturbate. He was ashamed and confused and it all felt too fucking pathetic. He sat in the cold bathroom, with the door locked, until it went away.

The second boy he touched was nicer. He was two or so years older than Dean, out of high school but still hanging around. A fellow misfit; a shaky, cigarette stained boy from a broken home, who smiled a lot but didn't say much. His lack of desire to chat made it especially surprising when he looked over at Dean with a small smile on his lips, and asked if he'd give him a hand job, promising to return the favor.

Dean doubted it, his previous experience leading him to believe that once guys get what they want, they're pretty much done.

But he didn't know if he'd ever get the chance again, to dally in what he actually wanted. So he didn't say anything, he just reached across the front seat of the boy's idling car and palmed the boy through his pants. It didn't take much coaxing to get him hard. And when he was, the boy brushed his hands against Dean's, slowly unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, pulling himself out.

Dean stared at the flushed organ, standing proud, a little bead of precome shining at its slit. He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry, hands suddenly shaking. The other boy reached a hand over slowly to Dean's, as if worried he'd spook him, and pulled it over, placing it on his shaft. Dean wrapped his hand around, and the boy closed his hand over Dean's, coaxing him to pump, teaching Dean how to move, how fast or slow, how tight or loose.

By the time the boy came Dean was working him fast, and solo.

With a whisper of, "Oh, yeah, I'm gonna come," the boy thrust up into Dean's hand and came, dripping down Dean's knuckles. Much to Dean's wide-eyed amazement.

The boy sighed heavily and Dean froze, waiting for him to take off, or maybe tell him to get the fuck out. But he didn't. Instead he opened his eyes and looked at Dean with a lazy smile. He brought his hand down to Dean's, collecting his own seed onto his finger and brought it to Dean's lips.

Part of Dean wanted so badly to suck his finger into his mouth. But he couldn't. He was... scared. Of what, he wasn't sure. His eyes lowered, and his head turned a little, shying away.

The boy chuckled a little, saying, "That's ok," and wiping his hand on a beach towel, offering to Dean to do the same. Then he reached over, palming Dean through his jeans, earning himself a gasp from the younger boy. "Your turn," he said with a smile.

Dean's heart thudded in his chest.

He was more practiced, more comfortable, and he smiled down at Dean's arousal as he pulled it from Dean's jeans, swiping his thumb over the already wet head. He squeezed and stroked Dean, slow at first, and then feeling him starting to twitch, picked up the pace.

"Dean," he whispered against his ear, "you're so fuckin' hot."

Dean's cock throbbed and he could feel the boy smile against his skin, apparently liking the reaction he got.

"I wanted you so bad, from the first time I saw you," he admitted, and Dean could hear the smirk in his voice as the words started to make him unravel. "So fucking hot," he doubled up the tempo of his hand and Dean let out a yelp of an _ah_, before his hips stuttered up and he came, silent and hard.

He collapsed back against the seat and the boy stayed close, kissing Dean's cheek once, and then his neck.

Dean opened his eyes, his breath trembling, and the boy was smiling down at him.

"Come on," he started, finally moving away from Dean to tuck himself back into his pants, and jerking his head toward the underpass where his friends were smoking and joking around.

He waited for Dean to collect himself, then they both went out to join the others. The rest of the night was unremarkable, but pleasant.

They were still friends after that, though they didn't touch again. The time just wasn't ever right. And when John inevitably uprooted them again, they said goodbye on friendly terms, the boy telling Dean to make sure he said _hello_ if he was ever in town again. Dean saying he would, even though he knew he'd never see him again.

He was sad for it. He still thinks of him fondly. He's grateful to him.

Maybe one day he'll be grateful to Cas too.

Maybe one day he'll regret turning and running out of the room without looking back.

Maybe he already does.

* * *

_Surprise! Mature Content. _

_I wasn't sure if maybe I should have put a warning before the chapter... Hopefully no one is like, emotionally scarred or anything? __At any rate, this little sucker has been upgraded from T to M. (Naturally, because I'll ride a pegasus to work before I succeed in writing something that stays PG-13. What a horn-dog.) That aside, I hope you guys like the development of Dean here. I've been working on it, on getting in his head, and I like where it's going._

_Thanks so much for the feedback, it's amazing and your support gives me the warm and fuzzies and miraculously makes me type faster. _


	12. Chapter Twelve - Stuck

**Chapter Twelve - Stuck**

"Do you miss Dad?" Sam asks of a sudden around a mouthful of macaroni and cheese.

"Sometimes," Dean answers. "Do you?"

"Yeah." Sam looks down at his plate. "Is that why you're sad?"

"I'm not sad buddy," Dean says, surprised.

And he's not. But he's got regrets. And he's utterly confused.

He can't stop thinking about Cas. And that's just dangerous. Because even as he sits here looking at his little brother, looking at all of his responsibilities right in the face, all he wants is to go back to that room, their safe little room, and rub shoulders and laugh quietly and maybe, god forbid, touch lips.

There's no use denying that he wants it. But that doesn't mean he can indulge. He can't. He just can't.

* * *

Not seeing Cas is difficult. He's everywhere. Even when he's not - not in person - he's on Dean's mind. It's even worse than it was in the beginning, when he was a staring stranger itching Dean's mind. Because now Dean knows that he's smart, and fascinating, and he knows the way Cas' face lights up when he allows the rare smile, and he knows what his lips feel like against his own...

How it feels to have him pressed close, his fingers at the nape of his neck, brushing up into his hair.

He can't un-know it.

He's fucked.

* * *

Dean doesn't know when he makes the decision, he just does it. And isn't that just how it is with Cas.

Cas has taken to haunting all of Dean's old go-to spots, perhaps in hopes of meeting him there. But seeing this, Dean has been avoiding them. Until now. As he takes long strides up the bleachers, he keeps his eyes on his shoes. He can feel Cas staring, sitting at the very top and watching him all the way up with a focus so absolute that Dean can physically feel it on his skin. Dean sits down next to Cas without a word, keeps staring down at his sneakers as Cas looks out toward the field, and they stay like that for a long while.

"Wanna watch more _Friday the 13th_ later?" Dean suggests, trying so hard to be nonchalant that he can swear, for the slightest second, that Cas smiles. Just a barely-there smirk. But still, enough to make Dean simultaneously irritated by his smugness, and relieved that Cas doesn't seem to be mad.

* * *

_Two chapters in one day - I'm on fire!_

_Not literally! I apologize. Please put down the extinguishers..._

_Another short chapter, I know. But I've got this pretty well planned out *knocks on wood* so there's more to come soon. Promise._


	13. Chapter Thirteen - Two Worlds

**Chapter Thirteen - Two Worlds**

They don't talk about the kiss. They essentially go on, picking up where they left off, as though it never happened. Cas doesn't seem any worse for wear about it, and it takes Dean a startlingly little amount of time to be able to breathe easy around him again.

The relief Dean feels to have Cas as a part of his daily schedule again is obvious, not only to himself, but to Sam. And to his father. Sam has always been observant of Dean's moods, maybe oddly so for a child, and Dean can't help but feel guilty when Sam associates Dean's new-found lightness with Dad coming home. But that feeling is nothing compared to the lance of terror that stumbles through his guts when he sees his father eyeing him suspiciously. Because he's forgotten to hide his excitement - excitement over Cas. He's thrilled to have Cas back, and elated that his refusal to be _like that_ with him didn't ruin what they have. It gives him this wild feeling like he and Cas actually have a strong friendship, something worth being pleased about.

But when his seemingly causeless smile catches John's attention, Dean's sobers. He remembers the way his father looked at him when he was only nine and he told him about his new friend Garth, who was funny and weird and gave great hugs (always hugged him at the end of school) and Dean found out he can even pick him up because he's so skinny and it's funny and they laughed and laughed... He remembers that he didn't get to see Garth very much after that. Dean immediately tones himself down. He has nothing to be guilty for, he tells himself over and over. Chants it in his head as he works at the stove. He and Cas, they haven't done anything... bad. Not after that first kiss. Dean may regret this fact, but hopefully his father can't sense that.

When they sit down to dinner, Dean dishing out the baked beans while warning Sammy with a stern look to slow down because he's got way too much hot dog and bun in his mouth, John asks suddenly, "Anything new at school?"

Dean's heart skips a beat, but he shrugs noncommittally, trying to make it the same as always.

Sam takes the pressure off a moment later when he starts talking about how math is stupid because everyone has a phone and all phones have a calculator, _obviously_, and also they fixed the monkeybars on the playground. The way he tells it, it was an glorious day for elementary schoolers.

...

It's the very next day, with John's silent assessment still echoing in his mind, that Cas first presses close to his side, maneuvering under Dean's arm, so that he can snuggle up to him, into Dean's loose, flabbergasted embrace. Of course Cas says nothing, it's all under the guise of watching their show comfortably. And of course Dean says nothing in protest. Cas can feel Dean's heart rioting in his chest as he nestles against his shoulder and side, Dean has no doubt. Dean can hardly think to breathe. All he can think of is how good it feels to have Cas pressed there, warm and close. It is very intimate for Dean, maybe unusually so, considering it's barely an embrace at all. But he's been alone so much. His hand hovers over the boy's body, not touching, not knowing if he can, not daring to take the liberty. He's never wrapped his arm around anyone but Sam. Even his own father doesn't really touch him, hasn't hugged him in years. Cas seems to know, can simply _feel_ Dean's hesitation. He reaches for Dean's hand, politely ignoring the little jolt Dean's body makes when their skin touches, and pulls Dean's arm tight around himself, leading Dean's hand to rest wherever on Cas' arm or side he is comfortable doing so.

Again, nothing is said, but they can both feel Dean slowly soften into the hold, his body finally relaxing. And he can't believe that he'd ever be so comfortable, holding someone so close. Holding Cas like this.

Dean knows it's lame, to feel like this is a big step, that it's important somehow. But he can't help what he feels. He's coming to realize that pretty clearly.

If Cas feels him shaking, he doesn't say anything. He just rests there, warm and seemingly relaxed about touching Dean, which awes Dean completely. And it's so easy to pretend, with this strange boy's body so close to his own, that John and his nebulous, unspecified warnings don't exist.

They don't move until Cas has to leave for AP Physics.

* * *

_Thanks so much for the feedback! _


	14. Chapter Fourteen - Risk, Reward

**Chapter Fourteen - Risk. Reward.**

John's just left last night, and Dean hates to admit he's relieved but he is. So he wakes up feeling pretty ok. On top of that, Sam is in one of those hilariously manic moods that children get into. So goofy and hyper for no apparent reason that, though Dean chuckles, it is almost terrifying. Little kids can be so damn weird. Sam simply woke up exhilarated and yelled and wiggled his way through their morning rituals until Dean had to tell him to _hold still you little squirrel_ as he pulled one of his comically small t-shirts over his hysterically laughing little brother's head.

John took the car this time around, so Dean is exhausted by the time he treks from the city bus stop to the high school, but he finds that he's happy. Kind of generally amused by everything. Sam can do that to him, make him stupidly happy. The little bastard's good mood rubs off on him.

When he gets to Room Seven Cas looks up at him, considers him a moment, and smiles. It's a small, private thing. A shadow, compared to anyone else's but no less real.

"You're light today," Cas says, completely even. Dean shrugs, blushes a little bit for the implication that Cas is observant of his moods, as if Dean warrants such attention. Which Dean is never going to admit, makes him feel special.

"You?" he asks back. "How's _your_ morning?" Dean knocks his shoulder against Cas' teasingly.

Cas' almost-smile falters, his eyes leave Dean's, trailing to some point beside Dean, and then down to the floor. Dean can see _something_ there, and he squints at Cas, worried and curious and very much wanting to know what in Cas' life makes him shy away, when it seems like so little can.

"Lonesome," Cas admits quietly, just when Dean thinks he's going to say nothing.

Something fiercely protective flares in Dean, and it's startling really, because he's never felt that way for anyone but Sam and John. He feels all at once that no one and nothing should be able to make Cas feel sad, like it's a crime and he should fix it. Dean knows, intimately, the terrifying and desolate feeling of loneliness. In some ways, it's worse than physical pain. And it occurs to him that while he's always acknowledged that Cas is like him in the sense that he doesn't have a crowd or a clique, Dean always imagined the boy simply possesses a superhuman, ridiculously mature outlook on solitude that negates any childish feelings of loneliness. He realizes in this moment, that he was wrong.

It's easy to look at Cas and think he's above normal things, like feelings; there's something kind of alien about him in that way. But it's somewhat comforting to see the softer side of him, to see he can be made to feel, and for Dean it's like he's looking at Cas and seeing the teenaged boy he truly is for the first time.

When Cas turns his big blue eyes up to Dean's, the edges of his cool facade of carelessness are peeling up at the edges, and Dean can see Cas' fear - that he's admitted too much. Said something too real. Dean realizes, maybe Cas is just as scared as him of rejection and teasing, maybe he always has been, but is just that much better at hiding it.

There's is no joke, no teasing quip on the edge of Dean's tongue. All he can think, as he looks at Cas, is that he's just so goddamned fascinating.

And beautiful.

Cas swallows loudly, steps in close to Dean's body, and stands there, the heat of his body mingling with Dean's own to make the space between them warm and very nearly lulling. This expression comes over Cas when he steps into Dean's space, that utterly transfixes the taller boy - like the more proximity Cas gains to Dean, the more resolute he feels. Not scared or worthy of pity, but possessing of a serene kind of certainty. Dean sees the muscle in Cas' jaw tick as he gathers his fortitude, and this time, Dean knows it is coming.

Castiel loops a hand behind Dean's neck, leans in, and presses his lips to Dean's.

Dean's entire body goes simultaneously rigid and trembling, but he doesn't pull away. He doesn't want to. There's a kneejerk heavy, sickening kind of terror roiling in his stomach, but there is also a fluttering there; a zing to his nerve endings, to every inch of his skin, that is intoxicating and pleasant and at utter, full-blown war with said terror. It is impossible, in this moment, to lie to himself about what he wants. He closes his eyes, leans in, and presses his lips to Cas' in a soft touch.

...

Dean is on the city bus, miles away from the school by now, but his lips are still tingling. He brings his fingers up to touch them, brushing them against the smooth skin that, aside from the phantom tingling, feels the same as always. He smiles to himself, his heart still beating a little too fast.

He did it.

He's actually kind of proud of himself. Cas kissed him... and he didn't panic, he didn't run. He isn't even really sure how it happened. One minute Cas was standing there in front of him, all handsome and complex, and the next their lips were pressed together.

Dean remembers Cas' expression before and after, how certain he looked. How strangely calm and strong. But he also remembers the way his lips and breath trembled against his own. It was somewhat comforting to realize the boy was just as nervous, even if not telegraphing it so horribly as Dean.

Dean who remembers in mind-melting detail the feeling of their bodies stood barely inches apart, mouths slotted so nicely against one another, Cas' hand a careful weight against his neck. They had kissed. Kissed like a young couple from an old Hollywood movie on a first date, brief and innocent and full of potential. Dean kissed Cas, with his eyes closed and his fingertips holding ever so lightly at the boy's waist. And when they pulled apart, he smiled. Couldn't help it. Neither could Cas, and God wasn't that a rare treat.

They sat close together for the rest of their alone-time, Cas settling warm and easy against Dean's side, his hand not leaving Dean's, where he'd entwined their fingers. Dean indulged in rubbing the pad of his thumb absently over Cas' knuckles. He remembers it now, pressing his thumb to the rougher skin of his own hands for comparison, as he makes the long ride home, surrounded by strangers who have no idea what he's done, the monumental step he's taken.

Dean has - and it's the first time he does - a secret from his father, that he relishes.

Everything is different now. He _knows_ what he wants.

He wants to kiss him again.

* * *

_Posted quickly - hope there's not too many mistakes. Hoping _more_ that you like it. :)_


	15. Chapter Fifteen - Match Strike

**Chapter Fifteen - Match Strike**

Maybe Dean should be embarrassed by the haste with which he made it to Room Seven, toppling up the stairs like some moron freshman whose feet are too big for their body, but he can't think about that right now. All he can think about is Cas - who he actually manages to beat there. Which leaves Dean feeling all at once triumphant, and a little like he's showing a few too many of the cards in his hand with his blatant eagerness. This thought leads to another - What if Cas doesn't show? Dean can't bear to think of the disappointment he'll feel if their one real kiss ruined everything. His giddy indulgence had blinded him to the truth he's known since he was fourteen, that boys are capable of being fickle and cruel. He glances around, heart suddenly heavy, and the room looks dark and empty without Cas. Like Dean was never meant to be there without him. He tries not to let the rare instance of being alone in their secret space make his head spin with doubts, but it's a hard thing. He's hoping so hard that Cas will come back to this room, that he doesn't realize he's clenched his fists and is staring at the doorknob.

It shouldn't be as much of a shock as it is when the thing turns, but Dean nearly jumps out of his skin.

Cas doesn't enter with the poise and certainty that he did that first day, that Dean imagines he does every day before Dean gets there. No, Cas _barges_ into the room. It's obvious as soon as he does, in a clumsy flurry, that he's in the same headspace as Dean - anxious and distracted. His hair is even less cared-for than usual, backpack bulging and slightly unzipped, a paper sticking out, and Dean's fairly certain he's wearing his dark blue sweater inside out, if the shoulder seams are anything to go by. Dean stares, wants to take every detail of him in, because he's never seen Cas look so very _not_ put together.

He doesn't realize he's smirking until Cas turns toward him, looks him up and down, and smiles back. Whether Cas realizes that eye-groping someone quite so blatantly is not entirely appropriate, Dean doesn't know. But it starts to settle his fears, Cas' look like a balm to his unsettled emotional state. And now they're in their enclosed, safe space together, standing still as if waiting. Their eyes meet only briefly before they both look away, Dean awkwardly scratching the back of his head.

It's Cas, of course it is, who moves first. And seeing the look on his face, Dean's heart stutters in his chest because he knows the look of someone completely in control of a situation.

The hurdle is jumped, the match is lit, and there isn't anything standing in the way.

Cas comes forward to stand in front of him, ever so slightly too close in that way he does, dropping his backpack unceremoniously. Dean swallows nervously, feeling safe in the resolute certainty of Cas' expression despite his nerves, and their lips come together once more. Despite their mutual anticipation, the kiss is soft and innocent, even Dean has to admit. It's just a close-lipped press of skin, hands landing in carefully safe places like Cas' waist, and Dean's shoulders.

Dean will never, even on threat of death, admit how much he loves the sweetness of it.

But the noise of relief Cas makes in his throat when their lips touch is more than sweet. It's deep and rough and adult. The sound has Dean shaking from adrenaline and restraint. His hands are twitchy against Cas' sweater. The ecstatic joy that surges through him at that sound of undeniable want and relief is almost embarrassing. To say that he likes knowing Cas wants him is the understatement to end all understatements. He can feel his cheeks warm from it just as much as the feeling of Cas' lips against his own.

Cas moves his lips against Dean's, kissing him as if introducing skittish Dean to the idea.

Cas is all soft skin and warm breath, the smell of soap and the wind before rain, and his body is warm and solid under Dean's nervous hands. It's intoxicating to Dean. He'd resigned to never getting to feel this _once_, and now here they are, indulging for a second time and he feels positively wild. Somewhere inside, he's awed and thankful at how easy this is. How they didn't have to talk about it, didn't have to come to terms out loud. He's not good at words and if he'd had to ask for it, he wouldn't have. Which makes him all the more thankful that with Cas, he never seems to have to verbalize what he wants. He certainly didn't have to tell him he wanted to kiss him. It's just... happening.

I's Cas' doing, and Dean is grateful.

...

By the time Cas has to leave for AP Physics, Dean is actually dizzy. They've done nothing but (almost politely) touch lips for over three hours. When Cas pulls back his lips are redder, cheeks are too, and his eyes are dark but lit up all at once.

He pulls from Dean's now steady hold to turn and pick up his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. Dean resists the urge to pull him back and instead takes a much-needed deep breath. When he opens his eyes, Cas is standing there in front of him, staring in that way he does. He smiles at Dean, and this time it nearly knocks the breath out of him. This is a new smile, something bashful and conspiratorial and god, it's handsome. Dean feels his own cheeks get even hotter as he fawn over this smile that's just for him. Dean's blushing only sharpens the glint in Cas' eye.

He turns toward the door to leave but hesitates, Dean watching awkwardly in suspense. Right before Dean's about to speak up and ask _What the hell?_ Cas turns back, pulls Dean down toward him hard by a hand on the back of his neck, and kisses him once more. And it's different - it's harsh and demanding and Cas sucks and nips at Dean's lips and his fingers tighten their grip in Dean's hair. And Dean, is at a complete loss... He can do nothing but stand there and just _feel_ it all.

When Cas pulls away, Dean makes a pouty face without realizing it. Cas holds onto him, considers Dean's face for a long moment, and Dean is so dazed, brain so unexpectedly pleasure-soaked, he cannot even care how closely and blatantly he's being studied. He merely blinks at Cas, giving silent permission to stare away. And when Cas smiles at him this time, there's something a little sharper than before, prouder, a little more mischievous. He leans in once more, kisses Dean quickly, and retreats at a speed higher than Dean is capable of comprehending at the moment.

Dean is still completely incapacitated when Cas turns and leaves out of the room.

* * *

_What a couple of days I've had. Sheesh (*finally finds a moment to exhale*). But awkward Dean/Cas kissing puts it all on the backburner for a minute. Hope you liked it too. :)_


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